


how like a winter

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: crowley ends up in a life-or-death situation, sort of, thanks to his own stupidity, and the only way to save the day is with TENDERNESS.





	how like a winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regencysnuffboxes (malicegeres)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malicegeres/gifts).



> another prompt from tumblr, actually another prompt from hallie, this one was "cuddling out of necessity" and it took me a week to write because i kept crying.

Crowley was not a fan of the cold.

Being cold-blooded was a hindrance in that arena, and it didn’t help that Crowley was so dedicated to his image that he often refused to wear a coat because it wouldn’t work with his outfit. For thousands of years, he had managed to get by with hopping from building to building to car to building, sometimes using minor demon trickery to keep his organs from shutting down, but mostly just taking the cold in short bursts and then finding the nearest fireplace. He thought it was working just fine so far, thank you very much.

Aziraphale, of course, thought it was absolutely ridiculous, which only exacerbated the issue. Crowley reveled in Aziraphale’s dismay at his weather-inappropriate attire; the angel’s look of shock and horror was almost worth braving the cold. Aziraphale had learned over the years that it was useless to say anything about it, but he did get in the occasional _I told you so_.

It was a cold but clear February afternoon when Crowley stumbled into Aziraphale’s apartment without warning (Aziraphale had heard him coming, but still expected he would knock, because there’s a first time for everything) and collapsed onto a horribly outdated loveseat. Aziraphale took one look at him and hurried to his side, dropping to his knees so their faces were level.

“Crowley, my dear, what happened to you?”

Aziraphale slid his hands frantically over various areas of Crowley’s exposed skin: first his forehead, then his cheeks, his collarbone. He turned Crowley’s hands over in his own to examine his wrists. He was ice cold to the touch and his skin had taken on a gray cast, but there were no visible wounds anywhere on his body. Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief underneath the strong concern that occupied most of his attention.

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open as he turned to look up at the angel, managing a weak smile when they locked eyes. He mumbled something incoherent before losing the ability to hold his head up.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut tight, inhaling sharply through his nose. He had seen Crowley sluggish, clammy, whiny, and any number of other things due to the cold, but it had never been this bad before. He found himself wondering if Crowley had any kind of self preservation instincts at all. Almost without thinking, Aziraphale began a sweep of the apartment for anything that could help Crowley; soon finding that he didn’t have much on hand, he put a kettle on and grabbed a thick throw blanket for the demon.

“Crowley,” he said, kneeling beside him again, attempting to arrange the blanket around his limp body. “Crowley, can you hear me?” Aziraphale rested a warm palm against Crowley’s cheek, flinching slightly when the demon stirred and opened his eyes once more.

“Mm,” was Crowley’s response. He leaned into Aziraphale’s touch shamelessly, chasing the warmth as the angel tried to pull away.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together briefly, unsure whether he wanted to smile or cry, and unwilling to find out which would happen if he didn’t keep it in check. He looked into Crowley’s eyes, finding them brighter and more alert than minutes before.

“My dear, can you tell me what happened?” Aziraphale was fairly certain he knew the general bent of the story, but he needed the specifics before he could decide how angry to be. For now, he settled comfortably into worrisome and nurturing instead.

Crowley spoke slowly, between shallow breaths. “Walked here,” he said, and then, “wanted to… dunno.”

“You -- _walked_ here? From where?”

Crowley grunted with the effort of a deep inhale. “Mayfair,” he said at length.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale studied the demon’s face for a long moment. “Why would you do that?”

“Thought it might… be good,” Crowley mumbled, “but… sss’cold, angel.”

“Yes, it bloody well is, you stupid snake,” Aziraphale snapped. Slipping his hands under the blanket, he tried again to run his palms down the length of Crowley's arms. His voice softened. “How bad is it? What can I do for you?”

Crowley shivered, not a warm-blooded response to the cold, but a demon response to the angel’s gentle touch. “M’okay. Don’t I look it?” He quickly saw in Aziraphale’s face that his joke didn’t land well, and spoke again before the angel could berate him. “Blanket… doesn’t help,” he said. “Got no body heat. Need an… external sssource.”

“Well, there’s this,” Aziraphale said. He gestured toward the kitchen, almost beckoning, and then there were two cups of hot tea in his hands.

Crowley laughed, a tentative chuckle that turned into a weak cough. He attempted to maneuver his arm to somehow grab and drink his tea without leaving the blanket or sitting up. After a minute of struggling, he lay his head back. “Might not work,” he said, dejected.

“Maybe not.” Aziraphale nodded his head and placed the mugs on the table. He leaned forward, his chin resting on the cushion, only a few inches from Crowley’s face. Folding one cold hand in both of his own, Aziraphale heard Crowley’s breath hitch. Something flickered across the demon’s face, a quick, dark flash, before he closed his eyes.

“Crowley,” the angel whispered, “tell me what you need.”

Keeping his eyes shut, Crowley let out a shuddering sigh. “Just… keep touching me,” he said, quiet, barely a breath. “Please.”

In all of six thousand years, Aziraphale had never been so acutely aware of his own physical presence. He swallowed, pushing down the many, many urges that came to mind. Their friendship was hardly without its share of physical affection, but the angel still found himself abstaining more than indulging in that area. Now, his gaze dragged down the length of the loveseat, Crowley’s long legs propped on the armrest, his body taking up less than half the space of the wide cushions.

“Move over.”

“Mm?” Crowley hesitated for a moment before catching up to Aziraphale’s thoughts, shuffling a few inches to make room.

Aziraphale climbed up next to Crowley, burrowing underneath the blanket, and pressed in close to his side. He tensed, expecting a rebuff of some sort, at least a sarcastic remark, but none came. Crowley melted into the touch, wrapping around Aziraphale to maximize their contact, and sighed. Aziraphale tried hard not to think about how they fit together so comfortably, how smoothly he conformed to the contours of Crowley’s body, how he could hear Crowley’s heart beating, still too slow to be healthy, how for the first time ever, he felt like he could easily fall asleep.

Minutes passed with no sound but their breathing, rhythmic and soft. As Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s skin warming by increments and his heartbeat increase, a nagging thought returned to the back of his head.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale reflexively pulled closer, nestled his head deeper in Crowley’s neck. When he spoke, it was with an edge of suppressed irritation. “What could _possibly_ have possessed you to think you could walk here?”

The demon cleared his throat nervously. “It seemed important, at the time,” he said. “I just didn’t realize…” He trailed off, and Aziraphale nudged his side lightly to bring him back. “I didn’t realize it was cold,” he finished.

“Do me a favor?” The angel fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He reminded his corporeal form that he didn’t need a headache, and he reminded his rising annoyance that he was still overwhelmingly grateful that Crowley was okay.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t do that again,” Aziraphale said simply.

Crowley laughed. Aziraphale laughed too, mostly because he was glad that Crowley could laugh. They were both warmed by that, laughing together, more than blankets or tea or their intertwined bodies. When Crowley spoke, his voice was a low rumble in his throat that Aziraphale felt more than heard.

“Okay, angel. Promise.”


End file.
